A lot of deer hunting consists of sitting around, waiting patiently in the woods for the perfect moment. As writer Ron Weber tells us, he takes the down time to admire the natural world around him, the perfect moment omnipresent without a deer in sight. His story comes just as gun deer season begins Saturday, Nov. 23, 2024 in Wisconsin.
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There comes a time in mid-November, weeks after the kaleidoscope of color has faded, when my thoughts turn towards steely gray skies and drab woods hopefully coated with a few inches of fresh snow. Towards other like-minded folks, some whom I may not have seen since last year’s November gathering, but whose company feels as comfortable as a favorite recliner. Towards the coming of those nine special days that, in many ways, give the rest of the year meaning.
Too excited to sleep, I will rise early and get myself ready. My memory conspires with my imagination to fill my mind with visions of what possibilities await. After a long walk, as I sit motionless, I sense the dark woods slowly lightening, candle by candle, as the sun painstakingly inches up the horizon. The stillness and quiet is searing, interrupted only by the occasional and startling popping of trees as sap freezes and expands.
It is a perfect morning.
A couple hours later, the views are now crisp, the green needles of the hemlock and balsam fir standing out brilliantly against the snowy backdrop. A flash of movement to my left catches my attention. My eyes instinctively focus on the spot, but I see nothing moving. Then another flash as a short-tailed weasel, sporting a white coat for the winter darts out from under a large fallen yellow birch log on whose stump I am seated. The weasel inquisitively approaches the end of my boot with the black of its tiny eyes and tip of tail all that keeps it from perfectly blending into the snowy background. It jumps onto my boot but instantly must realize it doesn’t feel right and again in a flash retreats back under the birch log. Though I never see it again, I am ever thankful for our brief encounter.
As the sun continues its arc, I am visited and entertained by others. A gray jay quietly appears flitting from branch to branch just above me, seemingly unconcerned with my presence. Funny how nature designed this bird to be the alter ego of its more raucous cousin, the blue jay. Red squirrels come and go, one in particular who has decided to play a game of chicken with me. It sidles up closer and closer within an inch or so of my leg and my boots but then spooks and retreats, only to repeat the game time after time. I guess some might be annoyed, but I can only admire its persistence and curiosity.
The sun is well past its zenith now and inching down towards the southwest horizon. The light is beginning to fade as the candles go out one by one. In the half light, I catch movement of a larger animal moving up out of the spruce bog. Could this be what I have been waiting for?
Out of the shadows of the hemlock, a coyote and then a second appear. Two fellow hunters whose skills I respect, as unlike me, they have no hot meal waiting for them at the end of the day if their hunt is unsuccessful. I wish them luck as they fade from sight.
As always, my hunt has been nothing but successful and I would not want to share a camp or campfire with anyone who would argue otherwise.
As I retrace my boot tracks through the darkening woods towards my vehicle, I think about all I have been blessed with this day:
The sunrise and sunset.
The weasel, jay, squirrels and coyotes.
The snow hanging on the hemlocks.
The quiet, the stillness.
All of it.
And they call it deer hunting.
